Arm.

Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.

Moth.

Concolinel—

Arm.

Sweet Air! go, tenderness of years; take this key, give inlargement to the swain; bring him festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.

Moth.

Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?

Arm.

How mean'st thou, brawling in French?

Moth.

No, my compleat master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids; sigh a note and sing a note; sometimes through the throat, as if you swallow'd love with singing love; sometimes through the nose, as if you snuft up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like, o'er the shop of your eyes; with your arms crost on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbet on a spit; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away: ^{1 note}these are 'complishments, these are humours; these betray nice wenches that would be betray'd without these, and make them men of note (do you note me?) that are most affected to these?

Arm.

How hast thou purchas'd this experience?

Moth.

By my pen of observation.

^{2 note}
Arm.

But O, but O—

Moth.

The hobby-horse is forgot.

Arm.

Call'st thou my love hobby-horse?

Moth.

No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love, perhaps, a hackney: but have you forgot your love?

Arm.

Almost I had.

Moth.

Negligent student, learn her by heart.

Arm.

By heart, and in heart, boy.

Moth.

And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.

Arm.

What wilt thou prove?

Moth.

A man, if I live: And this by, in, and out of, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her: in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her.

Arm.

I am all these three.

Moth.

And three times as much more; and yet nothing at all.

Arm.

Fetch hither the swain, he must carry me a letter.

Moth.

A message well sympathiz'd; a horse to be embassador for an ass.

Arm.

Ha, ha; what say'st thou?

Moth.

Marry, Sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gated: but I go.

Arm.
The way is but short; away.

Moth.
As swift as lead, Sir.

Arm.
Thy meaning, pretty ingenious?
Is not lead of metal heavy, dull and slow?

Moth.
Minimè, honest master; or rather master, no.

Arm.
I say, lead is slow.

Moth.
You are too swift, Sir, to say so.
Is that lead slow, Sir, which is fir'd from a gun?

Arm.
Sweet smoak of rhetorick!
He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he:
I shoot thee at the swain.

Moth.
Thump then, and I fly. [Exit.

Arm.
A most acute Juvenile, voluble and free of grace;
By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face.
Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
My herald is return'd.

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